sand clause 19 of the beyond neetch

i was hoping you'd stay away for a while

it's fukky and i'm back with diaper, we're here on k2 ...

... you just want more lethes

time to be current diaper - what's the latest on corona?

do mystics believe in currency?

you can't escape some sort of exchange

i'm on the cow and flow not dow

you've always been a savvy investor

explains all my assets

you think corona's the thing? - what all the prophets and sages have been predicting, hollywood's been exploiting, humanity's been avoiding, what ...

... it's ridiculous - we're on the peak of k2 and even the yaks are wearing masks

the monks too

so much for monks

heard the one about the monk and the 7 billion and 1 virgins?

he loses his mask right

fear's more contagious than corona

and far stupider. a billion animals - including the critically endangered - died in the recent australian wildfires and hardly anyone flinched. humans just kept chomping, consuming, polluting, dominating, posting, blabbing. but 4000 soso sapiens - hardly even vulnerable yet - die and humans across the planet panic. markets tumble. hate - already rampant - rises. institutions spring into action. idiocy increases though one would have thought it couldn't get any higher. what are we so concerned about?

ourselves i suppose

but what is ourselves?

isn't it obvious?

what's most obvious is often the least

don't get parabalistic on us

reality isn't as real as you think

that's a dangerous thought

thinking's dangerous until you think thinking past thinking, then it's just thinking

sounds like the high digger

struck me as rather plain, not that high or much of a digger - more like sin ought ra who got stuck in the bog of german substantives

a lot of teutonic sentimentality mixed with all that witless genocidal ponderous abstruseness

oh well, helps the academy continue thinking it's clever

you're avoiding the question

the question's a void

what do you get when you cross a question with a pandemic?

knock knock

WHO's there?

solved your own riddle

government will be useful to a point, then it'll be useless

circle of life. the daoists of course extol uselessness

sure, and daoism hasn't even broken into the top 5 religions

it's not big on lists or stats

back to corona

yesterday you wanted lethes, now you want coronas, you'll want buddy wisers tomorrow

la fin du mondes

oh the cue beck quaquaquaqua

where's lucky when we need it?

we're getting too literary fukky

back to basics

too plus doo equals acedia

the new math

what do you get when you cross acedia with a seed?

germaine fear

outdated reference ... second grave binarism

germ beer

we're not wearing masks

the whole world's a metro

for those who have the fare

here's shibuya station

the driver's a yak

i only see masks and eyes

niqaabs have always been sexy

should we get off?

i liked k2

you know what zarathustra says - can't stay on the peaks forever

if there are no valleys there're no peaks

only metros and masks

and eyes

and the poor

and the young



and death

knock knock

who's there

death

death who







you're right ... i shouldn't have come

i'm getting off at shibuya

i'll ride for a while

without a mask?

my eyes are my masks

i'm with you on that one, see you fukky

jusqu’à la prochaine la fin du monde la couche

次の黙示録までフッキー

Ə pig log

i have often laughed at the weaklings

who thought themselves good

because they have no claws

we are water, fart & plasma

how can we have claws, goodness

or even thinking?

sand clause 19

beyond neetch and neetch

toke ee-eye-ee-eye yo

english signs frequently amuse; a sampling –

• this is the very steak, the big cut of steak
• italian tomato cafe jr.
• we are going to construction on coming 12nd of february. it will be make noisy a few times.

tokyo is all hospital. surgical masks are the baseball caps of the world’s largest richest yottalopolis, adumbrating pandemic as the newest hippest sport. 20% of the populace routinely wears them.

the fashion on the metro is as bland as the tube’s – browns, blacks, greys, dark blues, contrasting with the bubble gum pink and manga lime that dominate those other nipponic dimensions.

the bulge and sprawl of this place like a five-star god gulped by and digesting in a constellated arcade. tokyo isn’t pomo, it’s pofu (postfuture).

in paris one’s compelled to piss everywhere – a rite and sophistication of sorts. here, if one were to pull out one’s dick in even the most deserted street a shinto priest would surely appear, saying no piss no piss ...    ... bowing, bowing ...    ...

japan is easier to enter than amerika. the Empire’s border umpires scrutinize me as if i might be carrying a copy of the koran and hiding in it a t-55 tank, a blueprint for the miscarriage of texas, and a load of banisteriopsis caapi. the immigration and customs people at narita look 15 and nervous, as if they’d like to apologize for the geopolitical necessity of this impolite ritual. i am of course no more on japan’s side than amerika’s – they each are genetically jurisdictionally modified vegetables i snack on to supplement my usually strict and robust psychic-aesthetic diet.

a metro – at least one of any size – grounds a city. lost aboveground, weary, blistered, this moving matrix of mercantile production, mapped infinities, i descend into any frequent staircase and am immediately at home. even in a large metro like tokyo’s, its graspable finitude – about 285 stations and 13 lines – is readily mastered and i can moor the airy limitlessness of urban supraterranean life in the colourful countability of a numbered subterranean system, which is so impeccably and thoroughly – even anally! – signed i don’t hesitate directionally once during my tenure. i’m never lost below the soil. above ground, i can’t find anything. chthonically yours.

shibuya (shinjuku ...) i expect to overwhelm times square but it doesn’t, other than in its scramble – a choreographed technical animation, dance of a hive, auto and human rigorously symbiotic. new york’s central absurdity does neon, achieves a gawdiness shibuya doesn’t seem interested in. the latter is a lit-and-technical brand-and-buy outdoor mall; times square is religious vertigo, the light of heaven dragged and chained to earth, the new jerusalem of spectral vision, god on broadway bodway.

my insignificance in solitude in nature is mathematically matched, jurisprudently balanced by my insignificance in tokyo. despite the mono-ethnicity (i see a few aliens for every few hundred japanese, a non-diversity that would be more offensive if it weren’t for the city’s obvious techno-cosmopolitanism [the world is here, just not in flesh – or rather not in flesh’s legacy bestial signs]) ... as a rare caucasian i am wholesalely ignored. in mexico city, marginally more diverse – particularly on its metro – i am often stared at. the blasé of being at the top?

i transit globally to feast spiritually on my nothingness – this gigapolitic a trans-creation on that sticky theme of consciousness flickering on the immeasurable screen of night.

it’s 2200h – late rush hour. tokyo’s metro closes soon after midnight to accommodate straggling commuters, hardly for the drug and party crowd. there’s no smoking on the streets except in designated areas. no one jaywalks, crosses against red lights. i see nobody eating or drinking (even water) on the metro or outside. 2 or 3 white-gloved transit attendants line every subway platform and if i inadvertently break a regulation one instantly appears, its arms in the form of an x. the place reeks of obedience.

intermittent digital reassurances appear on metro cars – in case of an earthquake, stay calm – a thorough plan is fully in place

• throughout the city elevations above sea level are posted – some are as low as 0.3 meters
• the pacific is right there. so is north korea.
• ... and where is the plan for all those three-star michelin restaurants? who could stay calm if tokyo loses its #1 spot in food?

does the beast yet survive in this cacophony of hyperorder?

well, there are women-only metro cars so that females can ride without being groped.

in the washroom cubicle at the meiji jingo shrine there are heated toilet seats but no soap for washing. having shat, once outside, i rub dirt on my hands making them look shit-splattered, deteriorating the situation on the 10-minute walk back to the metro by rubbing leaves on my hands, spitting on them, rubbing more. i look like a scatological wreck by the time i make it to soap. all this on acid and the anniversary of the founding of the nation. i don’t know if emperor jimmu would have been pleased ... but i’m as blapper happy as blotter paper.

the hostel i stay at has –

• in the toilets integrated machines that do a pantheon of functions from the convenience of a seat-side panel:  warm-water bidet with adjustable pressure, front and rear hole options, modifiable odour-reducing deodorizer, flush music sound with volume control to muffle any rude ass audio
• a communal bath (divided by the sexes), available mornings and evenings, in which it is mandated that you’re naked
• provided slippers, which someone replaces each day and neatly arranges at the foot of one’s bunk
• me as the only westerner among ~150 guests
• a lock-in from 2300 – 0600h
• families! scores of children, as if school trips from japanese hickland flit here for outings ... i saunter to the washroom to go pee one evening and battalions of screaming pyjamad 5-year-olds tumble polydirectionally in the hallways, whirled in that pre-bed ecstasy only the biologically young can pull off with such reckless grace
• ... families ... children ... and middle-aged traveling used sushi salesmen, who belch, fart, bellow and snore like antediluvian sumo wrestlers ...
• ... everyone’s in bed by 2200h and stirring by 0500 ...

where am i?

darkness

darkness and homelessness are siblings in time’s dysfunctional family.  in a present odd reunion – a poorly attended affair that’s rented my flesh for its drugged party – i find solace in darkness, i sleep in the cardboard box of my blood; familial lineages glide before me in runny colours and difficult flatulences.

the realms of visible politics – identity, sex, gender, ethnicity – are the shibuya of the human psyche … but the realms of invisible politics – sanity, eloquence, blood, beauty, virtue – are the pissed slums of neglected urbanscapes.  the latter are my home; daily i uncoil my diseased prick and whiz on the future.  melancholic jötunn suck me off with their gums and we collapse into night’s putrescent kingdoms.

i wake up daily in a bed of death

i say to the shadow called day –

i will crawl into you

i will make you my companion

we will play together as if we were friends.

but i long for the prayers of dreams

i lust though for the shadow of sleep

death is my lover, the grave my mentor

day – night’s useful mask, void’s awkward other

evening waits like a warm and dirty bath

how beautiful when darkness draws us into her

that dread of this ever-present waking

darkness is not an absence of light, but is polar to and interacting with light; light is the simplest most undivided, homogenous being we know … confronting it is darkness:  infinitely plural, divisive … and so infinitely creative.  colours – shadow and the children of shade – are light itself.  colour is born of and feeds on darkness.

darkness evolves environmentally:  as humans migrate into contexts of perpetual light, so darkness – our deepest need – is constructed and accessed in novel and fabricated ways by these emerging creatures of light.  the materials, maps, hazards, portals, labyrinths, signage, risk management practices and false exits of these fresh routes – the comparison of these to those of the worn ones – all this giving new life to darkness … or rather to humans in their cravings for infinite relations.

at light’s highest point on its ladder, the darkness of things presents itself to me as the simmering surfaces of light.  but at the apex of darkness on itself, how do i see light?  as the animation of darkness?  a misspelling?  as the remnant that questions, dark’s tongue?  a hope that subverts even hope?

any authentic notion of divinity – or at least that of the human unhinged from its overwhelming greeds and incarcerating self-reflections, and so the human not itself – must include that which is oriented to seeing in darkness, regardless of whether it can speak.  divinity is independent of language, and any future notion of the writer, of the book, might place vision – not word – at the center of its dark art.

do i wait for day or do i wait for night?  my orientation to this question determines my comfort with society.

knowledge, while it may be acquainted with day – most certainly an esteemed and professional colleague at times, on occasion a spouse – is night’s lover.

if we were to compare the conversations of night with the conversations of day, with humans being novel to us, would we not conclude we were dealing with two separate species?  so darkness is a language, and who would give themselves to its mastery? and how can it be taught but in unaccredited and disavowed classrooms?

are not the translation arts between the languages of light and the languages of darkness more of darkness, for they are rooted in obscure soils and hardly seed or flower?

to say we are born of darkness and return to darkness neglects that we never leave – we are simply given briefly eyes to see it.